


Plaisir

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo never enjoys servicing Lobelia, but her gardener makes the visits bearable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plaisir

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He looks up as soon as she opens the green door, poking her head out to look around as she tugs him inside. Frodo was discrete, of course, always is with clients that ask—and almost all of them do—and he made sure no one Lobelia would deem of importance saw him coming up the way. On the occasions where he does run into someone she might know, he takes the long way around and doesn’t approach Bag End until it’s clear. 

It’s just one more way in which she’s difficult. It’s not as bad as her grabbing his arm in her bony hands, jerking him towards the kitchen and tossing him to the floor. He doesn’t take abuse from other clients and doesn’t know why he does from this one. His knees hit the hard wooden slats, and he muffles his cry of pain while Lobelia flutters about the room, shutting all the windows. They don’t completely block out the sounds of the Shire, birds and children playing in the distance, but it’ll keep out her paranoia. She takes a deep breath as she stands before the last one. He can see the struggle in her, though he already knows what she’ll decide. 

Sure enough, she storms back to him. She flops into a rickety chair by the table and reaches for him—he never got off his knees. She never wants him to. He’s glad of it, sometimes. He wouldn’t want to play the pretend-couple game with her, even though he has other clients he lets hold his hand and draw him inside them. He’s never taken his trousers off around Lobelia. She’s the one that rolls up her skirt. 

She fists her stout fingers in his hair and tugs him forward by it, on hands and knees like a pig. She stuffs him between her spread legs and holds him there. He takes the usual moment to adjust to the stench and stifled position. She holds his nose flat against her brown-grey curls, his lips to hers, and then he opens his mouth, setting to work. 

Frodo doesn’t know why he comes back. It isn’t a bad job, not when he’s with the better clients, and he enjoys the excitement of it, the travel and the newness, often waking up in different beds in different farthings. But it’s only ever quick flings in Bag End, and there’s nothing interesting about her. The money’s barely worth it. She’s unpleasant, not so much for the things she has him do but for the way she treats him. Even now, she curls her gnarled fists too tightly against his head and hisses, “Faster, you dirty cunt.” It never fazes Frodo anymore. She has a filthy mouth for a hobbit who pretends to be so _proper_.

She grumbles random insults and grinds his face into her, and he licks begrudgingly at her clit and hopes she comes soon. Sometimes he just pretends she’s other people—Rosie Cotton or Pippin on hir feminine days or that Proudfoot girl Merry sometimes brings over. Other times, he lets his mind drift to what he’ll do for dinner or recites an old story in his head.

Today, Frodo hears the familiar, muffled clip of sheers outside the window, and he shivers, thinking of _Sam_.

 _That’s_ why he comes to Bag End. Lobelia’s a foul creature, but her gardener is a beauty, plain and sweet and always good to Frodo. He probably knows, has probably heard Lobelia’s shrewd moans and muttered degradation, and that’s probably why he blushes whenever he sees Frodo. He still always tries to smile. And sometimes he’ll ask little things, like how Frodo’s doing and if he’s heard any new songs of elves, and Frodo will wish that Sam was the one in the nice home with all the money and time to spend on prostitutes, and Lobelia was the lone worker toiling away under the hot sun.

Thinking of Sam wiping the sweat off his brow makes Frodo moan into Lobelia’s crevice. He pictures the sunlight tussling Sam’s hair, the flex of Sam’s thick muscles, the suspenders slipping off his broad shoulders. Frodo pictures Sam taking a nap amongst the flowers, or pouring cold lemonade down his throat, or offering Frodo a single coin and spreading his legs, and suddenly everything is worth it. 

Frodo redoubles his efforts. He pours himself into it, hardly seeing, smelling, or even tasting Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and instead flooding himself with want of _Samwise Gamgee._ He doesn’t know what sort of treasures lie between Sam’s legs, but he has fun imagining, knowing he could pleasure whatever it was, and even if he never got that far, he would still have fun kissing Sam’s sweet lips and licking down Sam’s throat and running his fingers through Sam’s hair. He thinks of being crushed under Sam’s belly, and he thrusts his tongue into her with vigor, hips lightly grinding in the air. He’d never touch himself here—she’d kill him if he came—but he’ll think of Sam tonight when he does. He always does. 

She finishes quickly, once he’s really trying. She doesn’t flood his mouth like Rosie does, but she does jerk forward and her throat lets out a hoarse yelp. She digs her fingers painfully against his skull, grinds him in, then tosses him aside, leaving him to catch himself and gulp in the fresh air. 

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. She takes a minute, panting hard.

Then she shoves her skirts down and jumps out of her chair, hurrying over to the counter. She chucks the usual amount at the floor beside him, then snarls, “Get out,” and marches out of the room.

Frodo knows the way out. He picks up the coins and puts them in his vest pocket, counting them as always, though she’s never stiffed him. She’s a vile thing, but she pays her dues. 

By the time he wanders out the front door, he’s still breathing a little hard and sure his cheeks are still flushed, his lips still wet. He spots Sam immediately, trimming the hedge just down the path, and when Frodo looks at him, their eyes connect. Sam’s sheers still, and his face turns a bright pink. 

Sam would never buy a sex worker’s services. Frodo knows that. He’s too shy and doesn’t make enough. Frodo used to hope that when he wandered out of Bag End, Sam would stop him and ask _how much_ , but he knows now that isn’t going to happen. If they ever get to know each other, it’ll be on different terms. 

Frodo wanders down the path. His knees are sore, as they often are after visits like this. Sam opens the gate for him, mumbling something incomprehensible by way of a greeting, and Frodo stops, an invitation on his tongue. 

Finally, he asks, “When are you done work?”

Sam blinks at him. For a moment, Sam’s round face is all surprise, and then he stutters, “Two hours, Sir.” _Sir_. It always makes Frodo want to laugh when Sam calls him that or _Mr. Frodo_.

He offers his best smile and tries, “Would you like to get a drink with me?”

Sam looks _shocked_. But he immediately says, “Yes!” with a more embarrassed and eager look than Frodo’s ever seen in his life. Frodo often wonders if Sam blushes like that when he’s being plowed into a mattress, but they’ll settle for drinks to start. Maybe Frodo can tell him another story, this time uninterrupted by their mutual employer. 

He’ll save that for later. He nods his acceptance. “I’ll come by then.” He smiles at Sam as he walks off, the day looking ever brighter.


End file.
